


Common Interest

by Sarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to the football and has an unexpected date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Interest

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, zebra363 and my BritPicker, mustbehavingfun

The envelope reads _John Watson and Sherlock Holmes_ in an elegant, flowing script. It's not stamped. John notices it on his way out to work an early shift, cramming toast in his mouth as he shrugs into his jacket. He's going to have to put his foot down about experiments that randomly explode at three o'clock in the morning. He'd been out of bed and reaching for his gun before he'd woken up properly. Just as well he doesn't actually keep it in the bedside drawer anymore or Sherlock might not have survived to lurk in people's doorways. And then he'd barely got back to sleep before his alarm went off.

It's still there when he gets home at midday. Sherlock is tapping furiously away, hunched over his keyboard, the envelope lying unopened within arm's reach.

"What's that, then?" he says on his way past.

"What's what?"

"The letter."

Sherlock blinks up at him. "It's a letter." He's obviously distracted if he's deigning to answer what he'd consider an obvious question.

"Yep, right, thanks," John says patiently. "Who's the letter from?"

"Who do you think?"

Judging by the handwriting and the fact it was hand delivered: "Mycroft?"

"Give the man a cigar."

"Why is Mycroft writing to us?"

Sherlock glares at him. "Why don't you open it and find out?"

"You haven't opened it already?"

"Why would I?"

John picks it up and turns it over. Just a plain envelope except for his and Sherlock's names. Something stiff in it. Cards? Tickets maybe.

He opens the envelope. "Bloody hell."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, even going so far as to lift his eyes from the computer again.

John sinks into the nearest chair, still staring.

"John?" Sherlock asks, sounding just the minutest bit concerned.

"Do you know what these are?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

"They're only tickets to the FA Cup final, that's all."

"Is that good?"

"Is that _good_?" John can't help staring at Sherlock incredulously. Not knowing about the Earth revolving around the sun is one thing, not understanding the importance of football is another whole level of ignorance. "Yes, you could say that."

"Oh," Sherlock says, looking like he's filing that information away for future reference.

"Obviously I can't accept them."

"Why not?" Sherlock sighs. Sherlock has a whole range of sighs. This one is impatience, combined with eye-roll. "I thought we'd gone over this."

"You want me to take them."

"Clearly."

"Why?"

"Because they will make you happy?"

"Is that all the reason?" John asks, suspicious.

Sherlock gives him an innocent look, which John immediately distrusts. "What other reason could there be?" Sherlock says. "Take Sarah," he suggests benevolently.

"Don't you want to go?"

"Do I want to go and stand in the freezing cold, surrounded by thousands of testosterone-fuelled screaming people watching 22 men kick a ball around a field for an hour and a half?"

"It's not that cold."

Sherlock stares at him.

Right. Not the point. "Have you ever been to a football match?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you won't like it?"

"I've never had my toenails torn out with pliers but I know I wouldn't like that."

John blinks at him. "That's not even comparable. Give me a good reason."

Sherlock sighs impatiently. "Take Sarah."

"Sarah and I aren't – besides she doesn't like football."

"Neither do I. That's not prevented you from attempting to persuade me to waste my time in a pointless activity that I will most likely find intensely unpleasant."

"You're a man."

"How sexist of you."

"I suppose." John looks at the tickets. "My mate Dennis and I used to go to matches together when we were younger."

"Call him. I'm sure he'd love to relive old times with you."

"Me and all. He's dead."

Sherlock looks up from his computer, looking a little disconcerted for once. "Oh," he says. "Sorry."

"Yeah."

Sherlock stares at something past John's shoulder. He's considering something. "Why not?" he suddenly mutters, as if to himself.

"You'll go."

"I said so, didn't I?"

"Oh, well, good then." A thought occurs to John. "Wait, we're assuming they're from Mycroft. What if it's one of those scams where people get sent free tickets to a show and then while they're out their place gets robbed?"

"While I do appreciate a healthy scepticism, I think we can safely assume these tickets are indeed from Mycroft, unless these hypothetical thieves have somehow been able to glean that you are a Chelsea supporter."

"That's a point. How does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock gives him that impatient look reserved for when someone asks a particularly stupid question.

"Never mind," John mutters.

"I assume you've attended matches in the past--"

"Yes, but not for a long time, and frankly, the idea that the British government apparently keeps such close tabs on its citizens is quite terrifying."

"Well, to be fair, not all of them. You're special," Sherlock announces.

John tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, stretching out the tension tightening his neck muscles.

"Because I live with you."

"Exactly."

"And? So why is Mycroft giving me Cup Final tickets?"

"Well you wouldn't take his money. He has to bribe you some way or he wouldn't feel he was doing his job."

"His…job?"

Sherlock expands out of the chair and flings himself onto the couch. "He seems to believe I need a keeper."

John smiles to himself. "He's not the only one," he murmurs.

Sherlock lifts his head to glare at him. "What?" he says dangerously.

Yes, well. John gets up out of his chair. His leg twinges. "Well, if we're going, we should get going now."

Sherlock doesn't move. "It's hours away, yet. I'm in the middle of something important."

John shakes his head and remains standing over him.

"Problem?"

"It's the Cup Final. It's going to be slow going getting there."

"We'll get a cab as usual." Sherlock blinks. "Ah, congestion, of course."

"We'll take the Tube."

"I don't like the Tube," Sherlock pouts. John's never met a man before who actually pouts. The annoying thing is how it gets him his own way so much. Honestly, people just cave. Lestrade, for example. Even John finds himself giving in way too often.

"I guessed as much. I've been meaning to ask why."

Sherlock just stares at him. "We'll walk."

"To Wembley? That'll take hours."

"With my shortcuts, an hour and a half at the most."

John thinks about it. By the time he's stood on the platform waiting for a train that's not too over-crowded, then got on and been jostled by overenthusiastic supporters, his eardrums deafened by off-key singing…walking's looking like the best option after all.

John fishes his Chelsea scarf and beanie from the back of his wardrobe. He loops the scarf around his neck. Sherlock is waiting outside on the footpath, hands in pockets. John offers him the beanie.

Sherlock looks down his nose. "I don't think so."

"Suit yourself," John says and cheerfully crams it on his own head.

As they walk John becomes aware that Sherlock is shooting him sideways glances. His lips are twitching.

"What?" John asks finally, resigned.

Sherlock's nose wrinkles as he smiles down at him. It makes him look human, and oddly attractive. "You look ridiculous, you know."

John shrugs. "I don't care."

"Quite right."

John's feeling pretty pleased with life. Given the uncertain state of their income, he hadn't liked to spend that much money on a ticket to a football match, even if it is the Final, and now here he is, on the way to watch his team play. Sherlock seems to have resigned himself and is enthusiastically expounding on mob mentality and the likelihood of them getting caught in a riot.

And then the body hits the ground in front of them.

John is still trying to persuade an unsympathetic Donovan to let them leave when Lestrade shows up.

"Finally," Donovan says. John follows her gaze to where a sleek black motorcycle has just rounded the corner and is coming to a stop outside the police cordon.

"You're kidding me," John says, as the leather-clad rider dismounts and removes his helmet to reveal Inspector Lestrade.

"It's his day off," Donovan says.

"Don't you have any other police officers that do murders, then?" John asks but he's barely aware of what he's saying because Lestrade has ducked under the cordon and is striding towards them in tight black leather. John's jeans are suddenly and unexpectedly tight and he's strangely breathless. How has he not noticed before how sexy Lestrade is?

"Practically everyone's taken leave today, oddly enough, and the duty officers have been called to another scene that you don't need to know about," Donovan is saying.

"No, of course not," John agrees absently.

Donovan rolls her eyes and turns to her approaching boss.

"Well?" Lestrade says to Donovan. He spares a brief nod for John.

"According to the freak--"

"It's a suicide," Sherlock says, popping up from wherever he'd got to.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade looks from Sherlock to Donovan.

"It certainly looks that way," she agrees reluctantly.

Lestrade looks at his watch. "Good," he says. "If we can wrap this up quickly, I might still catch most of the first half."

"You're going to the match?" John asks.

"As are you, I'm guessing."

"Not at this rate," he grumbles.

Lestrade suddenly turns and looks at Sherlock. " _You're_ going to the football."

"Actually," Sherlock drawls, looking deliberately from John to Lestrade, "I was only going to keep John company. "If he goes with you I can get back to the very important work I was doing. You can take him on the back of your motorbike, right?"

"I don't need to be taken, for God's sake," John says, mortified. "If you didn't want to go you could have just said so."

"I did say so."

"I'm surprised you got him this far," Lestrade says, smiling at a John in a conspiratorial manner.

"Me too, actually," John admits. "Listen, you don't have to…"

"I'm happy to give you a ride," Lestrade smiles.

"I bet you are," Donovan mutters.

Lestrade wheels on her. "What?"

"I said, what about the case?"

"Right," Lestrade says, all business. "Report, then."

Donovan straightens. "Forensics have examined the body, it's ready to go when you give the word. Uniforms have interviewed the witnesses, and the freak," she pauses to glance dismissively at Sherlock, "has done whatever it is he does."

Lestrade nods. "Good job, Sergeant," he says solemnly, and there's a flash of something - pride - in her expression before her face returns to its normal sullen expression.

"Thank you, sir."

It's the first time John's heard her address Lestrade with anything like real respect. Maybe there's more to her than she's shown so far. To be fair, Sherlock does seem to bring out the worst in a lot of people.

"Sir, I've got it," Donovan says, hesitantly. "If you wanted to go ahead? You don't want to miss the kick off."

Lestrade looks at her. "Thanks," he says.

She smiles. Another first. "No problem," she says.

"Right," Lestrade says. "I'll be off. John, you coming?"

"Er, right," John says. When they get to the bike Lestrade hands him the helmet.

"What about you?"

"It's less than five miles away. I'll be fine, and if we do get stopped, well, official police business and all that." Lestrade flashes him a smile surprisingly full of mischief. It makes him look younger and it's really not helping the improper thoughts John's just been having about him.

Lestrade stands the bike upright and swings his leg over, straddling it. The leather is rather tight, and John tears his eyes from Lestrade's really very nice arse before somebody notices. Involuntarily his eyes seek out Sherlock. Sherlock is watching him, of course he is, but Sherlock just smiles a wide smile that makes him look slightly manic, and then turns to say something to Donovan that makes her back stiffen.

Lestrade starts the bike. John stuffs the beanie in his jacket, puts on the helmet and clambers on the back. John's at a loss with what to do with his hands but then the bike lurches forward and he forgets dignity and grabs Lestrade's waist. His hands slip against the leather as the bike accelerates and he has to dig his hands in tight to stop them sliding forward around Lestrade's waist.

"Oi, not so tight," Lestrade calls back and John tries to relax, but he's fighting a losing battle. The vibration of the engine between his thighs, as clichéd as that is, Lestrade's proximity, warm and smelling faintly of leather and some masculine scent, their positions, his half-hard cock, so close, so close, if he just slides forward a bit…

They stop at an intersection and Lestrade turns his head and smiles at John. The roads and footpaths are full of blue- and white-clad supporters heading towards the ground now. Lestrade expertly manoeuvres the bike through them and finds parking close to the ground. Clearly a motorcycle is the way to go.

Finally they're in, chanting _Chel-sea, Chel-sea_ with the crowd, or at least John is, Lestrade watches him with an amused expression. The match starts and John is swept away with the crowd's enthusiasm. When Chelsea finally scores off a free kick, the crowd roars with one voice. John yells himself hoarse along with them. He grabs Lestrade and throws his arms around him and thumps him on the back excitedly. Lestrade returns the embrace, a tolerant smile on his face, and suddenly John is caught by the expression in his eyes. Lestrade is looking at him, Lestrade's arms are around him, and for a moment John actually forgets where they are, forgets they're in the middle of a bunch of 'testosterone-fuelled people', aware only of the heat of Lestrade's body against his. His eyes drop to Lestrade's mouth, and he thinks for a moment...

Then Lestrade is releasing him, turning to watch the match again and John sits back in his seat and stares blindly at the pitch until the colourful figures passing by resolve back into players.

After the match Lestrade offers him a lift home. He insists that it's not far out of his way. And since it's dinner time they end up sitting across from each other at the Chinese place on the corner. John texts Sherlock to see if he wants to join them. The response is nearly instantaneous.

I HAVE NO DESIRE TO PLAY GOOSEBERRY.

SH

John doesn't really have an answer for that.

"I gather he won't be joining us?"

John shows him the display. "He thinks this is a date."

"Is it?"

"Aren't you married?"

A shadow crosses Lestrade's face for a moment. "I _was_ married. It was a long time ago."

"You're still wearing your ring."

"Habit. And it's easier."

"Easier?"

Lestrade fiddles with his chopsticks. "People generally don't ask awkward questions."

Oh. Okay. "So, you ride a motorbike," John comments brightly.

"Yeah, mostly. Easier to get around, isn't it?"

"I don't know. I'd have thought it'd be a bit dangerous in London."

Lestrade grins. John has another moment of being taken aback at just how good-looking Lestrade is when he smiles like that. "I'll let you in on a secret," he says. "That's part of the fun."

John sighs in a put upon way. "Great. Another one."

"What?"

"Adrenalin junkie. No wonder you get on well with Sherlock."

"Says the man who follows him into danger on a regular basis."

"Point."

"Do you want to talk about Sherlock?" Lestrade is looking at him, for want of a better word, flirtatiously.

"I really don't," John says feelingly.

For the rest of the meal they don't. John is surprised at how much they have in common, at how well they get on. Afterwards, Lestrade walks with John to his door. John's not sure of the etiquette here. He's never dated a man before. He unlocks the door and turns to ask Lestrade if he wants to come in for a drink. But then Lestrade steps forward, takes hold of his upper arms and presses his mouth hard to John's. John takes a step back instinctively. Lestrade's crowding him; John stumbles backward through the door, Lestrade the only thing keeping him upright. John's backed against the wall. He's vaguely aware of the front door latching shut. Lestrade must have closed it somehow, but he can't check, all of his attention is taken up by the heat and warmth of Lestrade's kiss. John doesn't remember opening his mouth, but tongues are definitely involved.

Lestrade's leaning against him. John's very aware of the smell of the leather, of the hard length of Lestrade's cock pressing into his abdomen, of the thigh that's forced itself between his legs. John has to adjust his stance to accommodate it. At some point his arms have wound themselves around Lestrade's neck without his consent. It's weird kissing someone so much taller, weird and strangely hot and God, John's so hard. He wants to rub himself against Lestrade's thigh but he's pinned, he can't move. He makes a pleading noise in his throat, and then Lestrade's hand is there, expertly undoing his flies, groping him through his boxers and fuck, it's been too long--

"Get a room," shouts Sherlock.

Lestrade abruptly releases him and steps back. John sags against the wall and wipes a shaking hand over his face. They stare at each other. Lestrade looks as wrecked as John feels.

"Do you want to come up?" John asks eventually, when Lestrade just stares at him, looks at him greedily. That look shouldn't be making him hotter, making him harder.

Lestrade blinks and glances up at the ceiling pointedly.

"Maybe not." John smiles wryly. "He's going to be insufferable about this, isn't he?"

"As opposed to how he usually is?"

"I heard that," Sherlock yells.

"Ears like a bat," John says, resigned.

Lestrade shakes his head ruefully. "Another time?"

"I'd like that."

"I'll call you, yeah?" Lestrade says. For a moment he appears undecided. John wonders if Lestrade's thinking about kissing him goodbye, but then Lestrade just smiles at him and lets himself out.

John goes upstairs to face Sherlock. He expects some kind of condescending remark but Sherlock doesn't say a word, just looks curiously satisfied.

John makes himself a cup of tea. "You seem pleased," he says casually, sitting down in the red armchair, the one he can rest the cup on the arm of.

"Mmm," Sherlock agrees.

John holds out for a minute. " _Why_ are you so pleased?" he asks eventually, when Sherlock doesn't say anything else.

"Should I not be?"

John glares at him. "Going by your reaction to my dating Sarah, I wouldn't have thought so."

"Ah, but Lestrade's not Sarah."

"Obviously."

Sherlock radiates smugness.

"Okay," John says, giving in. "Why does Lestrade meet with your approval and not Sarah?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Apparently not."

"Lestrade's not going to be distracting you during cases," Sherlock says triumphantly. "No, this is perfect," he says, rubbing his hands together.

Of course Sherlock would think that. "Well, I'm happy you're happy," he says grumpily.

Sherlock gives him one of those penetrating looks. "I'm happy if you're happy," he says, and seems to mean it. "You don't have to date Lestrade just to please me."

John has to laugh. The arrogance of the man. "I'll keep that in mind," he says.

 

The next time an envelope arrives, it reads _John Watson and Greg Lestrade_.


End file.
